


The Machinations of Thieves & Lovers

by Kaicielia



Series: Miria [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-19 18:42:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5977203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaicielia/pseuds/Kaicielia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miria joins the Thieves' Guild. The first long-form story for my character after the events at Helgen. Not entirely canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Still suffering some writer's block as far as the later stories of her life; thought adding some back story (and therefor getting to know her better) may help.

Miria approached the city late in the evening and expected to be stuck camping outside the walls with the Khajiit. She watched as they huddled around a fire next to the road, sharing food, drink and tales as they awaited morning and the opening of the great Riften Marketplace. Their campsite reminded her of her own recent past and Miria’s stomach growled as she remembered the last meal she’d eaten, her last scraps of bread and dried meat, before she had broken camp that morning.

She had escaped both the headsman’s axe and the dragon that attacked Helgen the day she was sentenced to die. She escaped to Whiterun and was enlisted to help defeat a dragon there, a rare task considering the creatures were said to have died out long ago, earning her enough coin to buy armor that fit and a weapon she could weild more easily than the Imperial blade she’d acquired. She performed a few odd jobs and then, after speaking with the Greybeards; senile old men who believed she’d been sent to fulfil some prophesy; all available work seemed to dry up. Weeks passed as she watched her measly pouch empty, sleeping in stables and scrounging for whatever food she could find to stretch her funds as far as she could.

An inquiry about a strange stone she found in her travels had led her here and she once again stood before an unfamiliar city, hoping this time she’d found a place she could call home.

The guards at the gate surprised her with their request of a toll. As many people as Miria had spoken with about Riften, she expected she would have been told of a gate toll long before her arrival. “Toll?” She asked loudly enough for anyone paying attention to hear. “I never heard anything about a toll. You’d think the best marketplace in Skyrim would welcome guests.”

“To fund city services,” the guard on the right explained, his eyes squinting as he looked down his nose at her. “Guests get expensive, especially the dirty ones.”

“Well this will not do,” Miria exclaimed, well used to comments concerning her heritage, “my invitation said nothing about a toll.”

“Invitation?” The statement broke the resolve of the guard on the left and he glanced over his shoulder quickly. “Just keep your voice down so no one can hear you and we’ll let you in.”

The other guard glared at him, obviously upset over how easily Miria had talked her way past, but he didn’t try to stop her as she entered. The city looked majestic from a distance, with strong walls, wide avenues and docks able to accommodate the largest shipping caravels, but up close it appeared worn out and tired.

A ruffian inside the gate shouted as she entered to make sure she understood just how much of an outsider she was. When she asked him about identifying the stone, he informed her that a man named Brynjolf would be in the market the next day and she should ask him about it. Until then he suggested she stay at the local inn, The Bee and Barb, and directed her in that direction.

Miria was hesitant to stay at the inn, concerned over spending what septims she had, but she felt confident that the strange stone would earn her at least enough to get through the next few days if not a lifetime. Light, heat and the din of many voices called out to her as she approached, not to mention the smell of cooking food. She dared to smile and took a deep breath before walking through the door, but what confidence she had was wiped out as soon as she entered when a woman standing just inside took offence to being greeted with a smile.

“Keep your eyes and hands to yourself,” the woman told her.

Miria immediately dropped her gaze, but the woman seemed to be itching for a fight. “Yeah, that’s right,” she said as Miria slipped by. She was tall, several inches taller than Miria, and she leaned forward as she spoke. “I don’t need anybody messing with me tonight, just keep on your way.”

Miria kept her head down as she walked to the bar, hoping to avoid offending any more locals before morning. An Argonian woman behind the bar; Miria had thought the scaled creatures would be run out of human settlements like the Khajiit; was trying to calm a man preaching about the evils of intoxication. As Miria sat the woman called to another Argonian for aid. “Keep the sermons at the temple and let us all sin in peace,” he said as he escorted the man from the inn.

“If you’ve got the coin, you’re welcome here.” The woman told her as she turned to Miria, a hard look stamped on her face. She began wiping the bar down with a damp, dirty rag. “Otherwise, hit the road.” 

Miria was taken aback. Even as a wanderer, even as a Redguard in Skyrim, merchants had at the very least feigned politeness. She ordered ale and handed over the payment, dismayed that the woman’s face didn’t soften in the least. When she counted her remaining septims and realized she’d be forced to choose between a room and food, her mood darkened further.

She nursed her drink as eyes bored into her from every direction, locals getting a look at the latest invader. The eyes of most patrons matched those of the Argonian and the woman at the door; cold, distrustful and untrustworthy. Remembering stories of thievery and murder in the city, and silently praying to any God who would listen that the gem was worth the trouble, Miria spent the last of her coin on a room.

After some time had passed the attention of most of the patrons returned to their own tables, but one in particular seemed to hold a special interest in her. He looked out of place in this crowd; his eyes sparkled in amusement and his infectious smile tugged at the lips of even the most miserable faces when he spoke. She tried to ignore the man, but he was soon approaching as if they were old friends.

“Running a little light in the pockets, lass?” he asked as he sat on a stool next to her. He ordered himself a meal and a drink, dropping a hefty pile of septims on the counter to pay for it.

Miria eyed the coins then shifted her gaze to the ginger man. He was taller than she’d guessed and his clothing did little to conceal a strong and fit body. He leaned forward slightly and walked with an easy bounce in his step, indicating that he was well-versed in the use of the blade on his hip. Finally Miria met his eyes and shook her head slightly. “What makes you think that?”

“I can sense such things about people,” he informed her, his amusement obvious in his voice. “Desperation is suffocating.”

Miria thought to be offended by his comment but the way he spoke, as if all of life was but a joke, brought a slight smile to her face. The last person she’d spent any real time with was the Stormcloak she’d escaped Helgen with, Ralof, and she had left his sister’s house before he’d woken the following day. Everyone she had encountered since had been cold, guarded, and she had treated them the same in return. This was the first time anyone had approached her with anything other than irritation or accusation.

He dug into his stew in earnest when it arrived, washing down every other bite with a drink of ale, and continued to speak around the food in his mouth. “I’ll need some help in the market tomorrow,” he told her between bites. “It could help with your funding issues, if my guess is correct.”

“Do you often enlist the help of strangers?” Miria turned her face to his, forcing herself to look away from his food to quiet her grumbling stomach. He was attractive, she’d give him that, and she found herself hoping he’d stick around. “Not sure I should get mixed up in such an operation.”

He struggled to chew a particularly large bite. “I suppose any street rat could do the job, but attractive women tend to fare better in the market.” He swallowed before he continued. “What can I do to ease your worry?” 

Miria wasn’t expecting the compliment but she shook her surprise quickly. Matching his mischievous smile, she answered, “A name might help. Then when the authorities ask I can give them something more than, ‘the redhead with the broad shoulders.’”

His eyes sparkled when he turned them to her and he hesitated before answering. “Brynjolf.” He sopped the last of the stew up with a corner of bread and popped it into his mouth. When he noted her look of recognition he went on, “you’ve heard of me?”

“Actually,” Miria began, unsure if luck or something else had put him in the inn that night. “You’re who I came here to see. I have something I’d like identified.” She pulled out the case that held the gem and held it out to him.

He barely took notice of it before rising from his stool. “Marketplace, tomorrow, 8 to 8,” he told her. He pushed the empty bowl and mug to the edge of the counter. “We can talk business then.” He turned and left without another word to her, offering greetings to several people as he passed including the unpleasant woman standing at the door.

Miria got the distinct impression that she was being set up for something, not willing to accept that luck alone had put the man she sought in front of her, but she had few options at that point. She decided she would play along with his games for a while and made her way to her rented room, where her empty stomach made for a long and restless night.

Miria tried ignoring the sun the next morning, fighting for every minute of rest she could manage, but the effort proved useless. There were a few patrons eating in the common room as she left but both Argonians were absent. Grabbing a leftover crust of bread from a table near the door, she left the inn and headed to the marketplace.

Arriving just minutes after his declared starting time, Miria noted that the red-haired Nord stood at his own stall peddling what appeared to be some sort of elixir or potion. She took her time as she approached, stopping at other stalls and eavesdropping on his conversations. When she reached his stall she stopped and picked up one of the bottles, feigning interest in its properties.

The task he had for her truly was a minor one. While he created a distraction, steal something from one man’s stall and plant it on another. She didn’t bother asking why he wanted it done; she’d seen too much backstabbing in her time to believe any explanation he would have given; and accepted the job. Brynjolf’s voice went up a notch and he called for the attention of everyone in the market, waving them closer to listen to his sales pitch. By the time the group had gathered to hear of his latest miracle cure, she signaled to him that the deed was done.

“Not bad,” he complimented her some time later, after his pitch was completed and the two merchants had begun shouting at each other. He led her from the market as the city guard arrived to settle the dispute. “You’ve got quite the knack for this type of work,” he handed her a pouch of coins as he spoke, “and my organization has septims to be earned if you’re up for it.”

She pocketed the pouch without bothering to open it, but the rumble of her stomach belied her feigned disinterest. “Do you now?” she asked, expecting a pitch similar to the one he’d used in the market.

“If you can find your way to the Ragged Flagon, just through the Ratway, we may find a use for you.”

“That’s all well and good,” she told him, “but I still have no information about my gem.”

“Sorry, lass, but I can’t help you with that, and the guild isn’t in the habit of giving out freebies,” He turned to leave and Miria had to suppress the apprehension that blossomed in her core. “Meet me in the Flagon, and I can introduce you to others who may be able to help.”

Miria watched as he walked away, running through a mental list of the pros and cons of taking him up on his offer. He had invited her to join his organization, a dying thieves’ guild if the rumors were to be believed, but she had received no other offers.

She returned to the inn and ordered a meal, surprised to count a full hundred septims in the pouch Brynjolf had handed her. While the sum may prove paltry to a thieves’ guild, it provided her with a week or more of room and board and hadn’t required her to cut down an enemy or sustain a single wound. She decided she might enjoy joining the guild, even if it was in its death throes, and if she was lucky she might even get close to the red-haired Nord.

When the hunger pangs finally subsided and she drank enough to quell the fear she felt, she headed out. The Ratway was a series of sewers that ran beneath the city, accessed by a door on the lower level of the docks. It seemed everyone in town knew where the door was located but few had ever entered, leading her to question the validity of the rumors of danger. 

The trip proved much easier than Miria had anticipated. There were a few cast-outs who took offense to her tromping through areas they claimed for themselves, but they were easily dispatched. There was a veritable city down there, large rooms and tunnels stretching this way and that, and she found herself backtracking and opening random doors on several occasions in her search.

When Miria opened a door to voices in the distance, she couldn’t tell if it was the group she was looking for or another who would attack when they saw her. She crept around the walkway, moving slowly and silently until she knew what she faced. She recognized the ginger’s voice at the same time the unpleasant woman from the inn came into view as she stood with a group.

“You say that about everyone you bring in,” one in the group complained. “You’ve always got the next great thief.”

“But this one’s different,” Brynjolf defended himself. 

Miria realized he was speaking about her and crept closer to listen.

“Face it, Brynjolf. You, Delvin, Mercer… You’re part of a dying breed.”

“Dying breed, you say?” He turned and looked right at her, signaling for her to rise from her crouched position. “What’s this then?”

Miria rose and her embarrassment at being discovered was quickly replaced when the others turned to her in shock, completely unaware she had been there.

As she approached Brynjolf rattled off their names, names Miria doubted she would remember. She forced a smile but it quickly became obvious that she was not as welcome as Brynjolf had led her to believe she would be. Most fled the room as soon as they could get away; besides Brynjolf and Vekel, the man who ran the bar, only Rune stayed behind.

Miria clenched her jaw to hide the disappointment she felt. She had gotten so used to the cold reception of the people of Skyrim that Brynjolf’s initial warmth caught her off guard; that she expected the guild to be filled with others of like temperament made her feel like a fool.

“They’ll come around,” Brynjolf promised her when he noted her hard look. He sat at a table and motioned for her to join him. “You did well enough in the market, lass,” he began when she was seated, “but a guild isn’t all picking locks and pockets.”

He explained that there were businesses in town that owed the guild money and that her first official job for the guild – the job in the marketplace had simply been a test – was to collect this money. He gave her a list of names, including Keerava, the Argonian woman at the inn, and information Miria would need to collect the money. It felt like busy work to Miria, like a chore given to her just for the sake of giving her a chore, and she bristled at the assignment.

“Do you really need me for this?” she asked. “Can’t you do it yourself?”

“I suppose I could,” Brynjolf answered, “but then what would I pay you for?”

“This is a waste of time,” she mumbled under her breath, then more loudly, “but a paying job is a paying job. What if they won’t give up the money?”

“Use your imagination,” Brynjolf told her, and his smile widened for a second. “Avoid killing anyone, though. It’s generally bad business to kill off your customers.”

Miria was back on the streets of Riften before midday, learning the streets and alleyways of the city as she went about collecting the guild’s money. At The Bee and Barb she spoke with Keerava’s husband, Talen, as Brynjolf had suggested and learned about the woman’s fierce loyalty to her family. When she told Keerava that Brynjolf had sent her, the woman initially replied with hostility.

"I've already told that buffoon I'm not paying you people a single coin!" she shouted, turning away.

“Hmmm…” Miria hummed to herself. “Maybe your family could cover your debt. They still in Morrowind?”

The woman froze in her tracks and turned fearful eyes on Miria. “How could you possibly know about... Please. My family means too much to me. Don't hurt them." Her eyes flitted back and forth as she considered her situation. “Maybe we could talk about it over a meal; on the house, of course.”

Miria choked on the laugh that erupted. “Lady, the proper time for that would have been last night, when I walked in here cold and hungry – before I was offered the job.”

They stared at each other for several long seconds before Keerava caved. She asked Miria to pass an apology on to Brynjolf for something she had said about him and handed over a pouch. “Every single coin I owe is there, I swear it."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meeting Mercer

Brynjolf seemed surprised when Miria returned just a few hours later and dropped three good-sized pouches onto the table in front of him. He looked at them skeptically and hefted them, testing their weight. “How did you get them to give it up so quickly?”

Miria shrugged. “Just followed your instructions.”

“That’s interesting,” he said, raising his voice and looking around the Flagon at those gathered there, “since that was not the first time I handed them out.” Several people looked away from him when his eyes met theirs, but he didn’t pursue the matter.

“And it would seem I owe you something in return. Here you go, I think you'll find these quite useful.” He handed her three vials, similar to those he had been hawking in the marketplace, and Miria gave him a questioning look.

“Poison, healing, and this one will draw the shadows around you, making you more difficult to see,” he explained to her as he indicated each in turn. When Miria continued to stare he asked, “This isn’t the payment you expected?”

“I was expecting a payment I could spend.” Miria pointed out.

“That's the spirit! Larceny's in your blood... the telltale sign of a practiced thief. I think you'll do more than just fit in around here.” As he counted the coin to assure not a septim was missing, Miria asked him about the rumors she had heard concerning the guild’s demise.

Without looking up he answered, “the more a gossip speaks, the less they generally know.”

Miria looked at the tavern around them, noting the broken furniture, the dirt and grime that covered the place. “All evidence seems to point to that conclusion.”

Brynjolf looked up and gave an exasperated sigh, but his eyes remained bright. As he fed the coins into a single pouch he explained, “We've run into a rough patch lately, but it's nothing to be concerned about. Tell you what. You keep making us coin and I'll worry about everything else. Fair enough?”

Miria got the impression she was being brushed off, so she nodded in reply. “Fair enough.”

Brynjolf stood and motioned to the far end of the room. “Now if there are no more questions, how about following me and I'll show you what we're all about.”

Miria followed him out of the Flagon and into the Cistern, which served as living quarters for the guild. Sitting behind a desk, a man shuffled paperwork and muttered to himself. He was thick and grey, with hungry eyes that hinted narcissism. He reminded her of the Imperial officers she’d had the misfortune of knowing; men who had lived hard and violent lives with the belief that such a life would earn them respect, fame and fortune. When their lives turned out “just” good, they lost any pretense of honor or integrity and resorted to whatever means was necessary to get what they wanted.

He looked up when they stopped in front of the desk, barely taking notice of her before turning his eyes to Brynjolf.

“Mercer?” the ginger began in greeting. “This is the one I was talking about... our new recruit.” Brynjolf continued speaking, exaggerating her accomplishments and what skills he’d observed, but his words were lost on the unpleasant man. Mercer fixed him with an icy stare and hissed sharply as he forced breath through pursed lips.

When he spoke, his voice matched his unpleasant expression. “This better not be another waste of the Guild's resources, Brynjolf.” He sized her up without looking her in the eye, a move that unnerved Miria, and turned a knowing scowl Brynjolf’s way before turning back to her.

“Before we continue, I want to make one thing perfectly clear.” He spoke as if he were speaking to an errant child or a servant not worth their pay. “If you play by the rules, you walk away rich. You break the rules and you lose your share. No debates, no discussions... you do what we say, when we say. Do I make myself clear?”

Miria fought to keep from laughing in the man’s face. “What’s the point of rules for thieves?”

He didn’t like her reply and made that fact obvious in his angry face. “I'll let that comment go because you're new here. Ask things out of turn again, and we have a problem. Now, are we clear on all of this?”

Miria tasted blood as she bit back a crass reply and turned to Brynjolf for guidance. At his nod, she looked back to Mercer and nodded. “Clear as sky.”

“Very good,” he said as he pulled a sheaf of paper from his desk and handed it to Miria. “And since no one else can seem to get this taken care of, maybe some new blood will help.”

“Wait a moment,” Brynjolf interrupted, “you're not talking about Goldenglow, are you? Even our little Vex couldn't get in.”

Mercer turned toward the rogue and gave him a dangerous look. “You claim this recruit possesses an aptitude for our line of work. If so, let her prove it.” Returning his gaze to Miria he explained, “Goldenglow Estate is critically important to one of our largest clients. However, the owner has suddenly decided to take matters into his own hands and shut us out. He needs to be taught a lesson. Brynjolf will provide you with the details.” He waved his hand in dismissal and went back to his work.

Brynjolf watched the man for a second before speaking again. “Mercer, aren't you forgetting something?”

The man looked back up. “Hmm?” When Brynjolf nodded his head in Miria’s direction, his eyes widened in understanding and he again looked at her. “Oh, yes. Since Brynjolf assures me you'll be nothing but a benefit to us, then you're in. Welcome to the Thieves Guild. You can see Tonilia for your gear.”

Miria went over the conversation in her head as she and Brynjolf left the Guildmaster to his work. “I don’t like him,” Miria said as they returned to the Ragged Flagon. There was no animosity or accusation behind her words, no indication that she expected someone to remedy the situation, it was simply a statement of fact. 

“Don’t like him,” Brynjolf repeated, “you barely know him.” 

“It doesn’t take that long to decide if you like someone,” Miria responded. “For instance, I knew I liked you right away. Thought you were an ass for eating in front of me and not sharing, but I liked you.”

Brynjolf chuckled as they exited the dark hall and turned to the bar. “And what if he’s just having a bad day?” Vekel set a full mug on the bar for each of them. “Maybe he’s usually a great guy.”

“Then I’ll change my mind about him when he’s having a better day.” Miria picked up one of the mugs and set a coin on the bar to cover the cost. “But that guy back in the Cistern, I don’t like him.”

“He’s been with the guild for so long,” Brynjolf said as he picked up his own mug. “No matter how bad things get, he sticks around. I don’t know where the guild would be without him.” He seemed to drift off for a moment before realizing Miria was watching him. “Tell you what, go speak with Toni; you should ask her about your gem; and I’ll make up for being an ass at the inn.”

Miria smiled at the small victory and turned to where the woman kept her wares. As Miria understood it, the area used to sport merchants of all types. Now, however, Tonilia was the only fence the guild had and her funds and merchandise were limited by that fact.

Miria felt the eyes of the rest of the guild on her back as she walked. She knew that they didn’t like her, or rather they didn’t like the idea of her, the idea of change, but she gave it little thought. Tonilia gave her a set of worn leather armor without bothering to speak to her, but when Miria showed her the strange gem the woman’s eyes went wide.

“That’s quite a find there,” she told Miria, “although without the other 23 it isn’t worth much. You might be able to find a collector willing to buy it.”

“So… no chance of a sale here?”

“I’d be happy to take it off your hands,” she answered with an apologetic smile. “I’m not, however, willing to pay you for it on the extremely remote chance I’ll find the rest and get rich.”

Miria thanked her for her time and returned to Brynjolf, who now ate at a table with Vex. She slowed and eyed Vex cautiously. The Brenton woman rarely had anything pleasant to say and Miria had hoped to share a pleasant meal with Brynjolf. When Brynjolf motioned for her to sit in the empty seat before a hot bowl of stew, however, she ignored the woman’s presence and obeyed.

“He gave you Goldenglow?” Vex spat at Miria before she was fully in her seat. “I can’t believe that man.”

“He’s just trying to get the job done,” Brynjolf argued. “Maven wasn’t exactly pleased at your failure.”

“He’s going to get her killed,” Vex countered without hesitation. “And it wouldn’t surprise me to find out that’s what Maven’s after.”

Brynjolf rolled his eyes as he shoveled stew into his mouth.

“I thought the guild was part of Maven’s power in Riften,” Miria stated. “Wouldn’t crippling the guild cripple her at the same time?”

Vex shook her head at Brynjolf’s apparent disinterest and turned to Miria. “The woman likes being in power and displaying that power. The guild is useful to her only as long as its power doesn’t threaten her own. She’s got the Dark Brotherhood and who knows who else to fall back on if the guild falls.”

“You’re being paranoid,” Brynjolf finally said to her, annoyance coloring his voice. “Why can’t you just admit you couldn’t do the job and let it go?” He stood then and moved to another table to finish his meal.

The outburst shocked Miria and she watched the man before turning back to Vex. “Do you really think she’s trying to do the guild in?”

Vex took a deep breath before she spoke again. “Goldenglow is located on its own island,” she explained. “Every door in the place has a quality lock on it and many well-paid mercenaries patrol the grounds. It has its own sewer, which is how I got in last time, but I’m sure that has since been protected and trapped. If she’s not actively trying to kill us, she’s making it perfectly clear how little our lives mean to her.” With that she rose and left, walking in the direction of the Cistern.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A practice run

Miria thought about the woman’s words for several minutes as she ate her meal. She watched as Brynjolf grimaced into his empty bowl, his lips moving slightly as he considered the situation himself. Finally she moved to join him. “Do you really think its just paranoia?”

He watched as she sat and shook his head slightly. “Don’t tell me it’s rubbing off.”

Miria shrugged her shoulders noncommittally. “I am headed out there next,” she answered. “It would be nice to know if I’m being sent to my death.”

Brynjolf gave her a sarcastic smile. “You break in, you do your thing, you get out. How difficult could it be?” When no response came from Miria he added, “Is this your first time?”

Miria turned an incredulous look on him. “No,” she answered, “but it’s a little different breaking into a farmhouse, which may or may not even have a lock on the door, to look for food and blankets than breaking into a well-defended business to sabotage it.”

Brynjolf tamed his smile. “Tell you what,” he said to Miria, “I’ve a special job tonight. Maybe if you tag along you could learn something that would help.”

Miria agreed readily, rather pleased that the situation turned out as it had. She welcomed the opportunity to hone her skills, not to mention spend some time alone with Brynjolf. She agreed to meet him in the market again, this time at sundown, and bid him farewell when he excused himself. She finished her meal slowly, imagining everything that the night would entail.

Miria had never been known for her patience and found herself in the market well before the appointed time. She made a quick round of the stalls before stopping at the forge where Balimund taught her how to maintain her weapons. When the sun dipped below the horizon she heard Brynjolf greet the merchant she had robbed for her first job and thanked the smith for his instruction before taking her leave.

She plastered an innocent smile on her face before approaching Brynjolf as the two continued their conversation. Brynjolf smiled, waved her over and introduced her to Madesi, an apparently well-renowned jeweler.

“Didn’t I see you two in the market together earlier,” the merchant asked. He turned to chastise Brynjolf, “such a lovely young lady, and still she wanders the city without a ring? How do you expect other suitors to know she’s taken?” He opened a small travel case, displaying several gold and silver rings.

“Sorry, but that’s not…” Brynjolf began to answer, but Miria interrupted him.

“Aw, Brynny,” she whined. The look of horror he gave her was worth his disapproval. “But they’re so pretty.” She lifted a hand to reach into the case but was stopped when another gripped her elbow and pulled her away.

“We’ve other business tonight,” Brynjolf told her in annoyance. He spun her to face him and gave her a hard look, but Miria simply smiled in return. “This’ll have to wait for another time.”

She turned to give Madesi an apologetic shrug and he closed his travel case. “You know where to find me if you change your mind,” he told them before taking his leave.

“You are impossible,” Brynjolf told Miria when they were alone.

“Oh, I’m possible,” she corrected him, excitement causing her to vocalize her stream of thoughts regardless whether it made any sense. “In fact, I am quite likely. They’re less likely to suspect us of anything if they’re busy gossiping about our dysfunctional relationship.”

They turned together and Brynjolf led her along the road, guiding her with the elbow that he still held. “I doubt he was thrown by your little show.”

“You’re assuming he was the one I was trying to fool.” Miria huffed loudly and pulled her elbow from his grip. “So, what’re we doing? When do we start?”

“About 10 minutes ago,” he answered in an exasperated sigh. “If you’d calm down enough to pay attention, you’d have figured that out already.”

Miria looked up at him, just then realizing that he was scanning the area around them intently. She looked around, wondering what he saw that she did not, and he again took her elbow to guide her around a turn.

All of the merchants had cleared out of the market and Miria heard nothing beyond the normal sounds of the night, the ever-present noise from the orphanage (She seriously wondered if that woman possessed any volume control) and the shuffle of booted feet as the guards made their rounds.

The slamming of the keep door ahead of them announced the exit of a group of guards there. They descended the stairs, talking among themselves, and turned toward the couple.

Brynjolf leaned in close to Miria, so close that she could feel the heat of his breath when he spoke. “You’ll like this one,” he said to her.

When the guards were a short way ahead of them, he turned with her toward the outside of the road and backed her into a dark corner between the keep and Black-Briar Manor. The sudden movement surprised Miria and she clapped a hand over her mouth as a small sound escaped. He stepped closer to her and leaned forward, trapping her between the wall and his own bulk.

The excitement was almost too much for Miria. One hand remained over her mouth, keeping her from making any more noise, and the other gripped the front of Brynjolf’s tunic. Her temperature rose and she fought to control her rapid breathing as she watched his eyes dance in the scant light between them, imagining that her own reflected them.

The guards directed a snide comment to them as they passed and Brynjolf twitched as if the voice surprised him. A second later he stepped back and the return of the cold sea air caused Miria to shiver. After peeking out to the street they’d just left, he turned back to her before bolting into the night. “All right, let’s go.”

She followed without hesitation, but when she caught up with him at the top of the keep stairway her voice came out in a hiss. “Mistveil Keep? We’re breaking into Mistveil Keep?”

He wiggled his eyebrows and smiled, then turned to the door that opened to the dungeon.

“If I can just…” he said as he picked the lock, and the click as it released sounded like a claxon to Miria. They slipped into the darkness together and shut the door behind them.

“How the hell are we supposed to break into the keep?” Miria asked a little more loudly after the door was shut, “and what makes you think we’ll be getting away with it?”

“This isn’t my first time,” he answered nonchalantly. There was a flash of light then a flickering glow as he lit a torch. They walked through a dark hall, past empty cells and dark doorways, as he continued.

“Vex is right about one thing. Maven loves to show off her power, especially if there is any indication that power is under threat.” They turned a corner, then another, and Miria was soon lost in the darkness. “Lady Law-Giver is meeting with other Jarls and businessmen tonight to discuss the recent rumors of political corruption. Maven has hired us to remind her of their previous arrangement.”

Finally they came to a door at the end of a dark hall and Miria took the torch from Brynjolf as he picked the lock there. “So how often do you do this?” Miria asked him.

The lock clicked and he turned to look at her. “In truth, it’s been a couple years. Maven has been feeling rather secure in her position, and the Jarl has gotten lax in her security.”

Dank, stinking air greeted them through the open door and they made their way quickly to a ladder leading to a trapdoor above them. The trapdoor itself was locked and it was another several minutes before Brynjolf was able to pick the lock over his head. When the sound of the lock releasing sounded he looked down to Miria with a smile on his face and put a finger to his lips. “Now,” he whispered, “let’s just hope she didn’t leave anybody behind.”

They climbed the ladder into a low-ceilinged hall and bent at their waists as they followed it until it opened to a narrow stair. At the top of the stair they walked into the main hall through a door hidden behind a hanging tapestry. After they emerged, Miria waited as Brynjolf checked the few doors that led from it. 

“All locked,” he told Miria when he returned to her. “Looks like we’re alone.”

Miria smiled and walked around the hall cautiously. When an item caught her attention, a hound carved from some dark wood, her eyes swept the room again before she reached for it. “So,” she asked as she examined the piece, “what are we doing now?”

“Nothing specific,” Brynjolf told her. When she looked back, she saw that he was examining the tables behind the Jarl’s throne. “Just make the message from Maven clear.”

She smiled and pocketed the carving. As Brynjolf considered items nearer the throne, Miria continued to explore the rest of the hall. She ran her hands over the thick table cloths that covered the dining tables and opened one of several bottles of wine set on a shelf nearby.

Miria considered the wealth in the room as she went, imagining that a single pewter goblet would cover the cost of a room at the inn for several weeks and one of the gold-trimmed ceramic plates would buy her a year. She remembered her own hunger the night before; thought of the beggars in the marketplace and the lady from the orphanage asking for donations so that she could feed her charges.

The sweet, blood-red liquid warmed her as it filled her belly. She couldn’t place its flavor; like fresh snowberries sweetened in the sun. It was a definite change from the mug of barely tolerable ale she had paid for at the inn and she assumed that it, too, ran well over what the average citizen of the city could afford. 

Miria remembered how grateful she had been for the stew she was served in the Flagon; a bowl of beans, potatoes, cabbage and onion; and imagined the whole roasted game birds and slabs of meat she was sure were eaten here on a regular basis. With a sneer she collected the remaining bottles, packing them carefully so they wouldn’t break.

Miria didn’t know Maven, didn’t know what a message from the woman would look or sound like, but she kept one eye on Brynjolf in an attempt to learn more. He didn’t seem interested in the expensive trinkets; he showed no interest in the gilded vases or the rare artifacts placed here and there. Rather, he seemed to concentrate on smaller objects with some personal connection; a simple dagger that looked woefully out of place among the riches, an old faded blanket draped over the throne.

As Brynjolf continued to consider, Miria followed the hall that circled behind the throne. There was a door at the center of the hall, buffeted by benches and tables with riches on either side. She imagined that the door led to the personal chamber of the Jarl and a mischievous plan began taking shape in her mind.

Miria fancied herself a natural lockpick while at the same time admitting the need for practice. Given enough picks and time, she had yet to find a lock she couldn’t break. Kneeling in front of the door, she got her lock picks out of her bag, set the bag aside and went to work.

The lock was definitely a good one. Miria worked at it for several long minutes, was surprised when she was temporarily blinded by sweat dripping into an eye. She wiped her forehead and continued working on the lock, smiling widely when she heard the click of the release.


	4. Chapter 4

Miria was concentrating so hard she didn’t hear the footsteps that approached from behind. Her heart skipped a beat when a voice broke through her focus. 

“What are you doing?”

Miria whipped her head around and narrowed her eyes at Brynjolf. “Practicing,” she hissed to him, but the anxiety passed quickly. She stood and gave him a satisfied grin. “I got it.”

“Well, good,” he told her and motioned to the door they’d come in. “I got what I needed, we’re done here.”

Miria’s eyes went wide and she hesitated, not ready to walk away from any reward that may be waiting for her on the other side of the door. “Is it… not allowed?” she asked hesitantly. “I mean, wouldn’t getting into her personal chambers send a more clear message?”

Brynjolf shook his head as he answered. “More locks to pick, more chances to get caught; unnecessary complications to completing the job.”

“But…” Miria complained. She leaned back against the door to push it open a crack. “No one else is here, she’s not even in the city and the guards have left for the night.” She looked at Brynjolf with pleading eyes before she continued. “The lock’s already opened. No chance of getting caught and no complications.” 

She took hold of one of his hands and pushed the door open further when she saw the determination in his eyes wane. “I just want to look,” she continued to argue even as she turned and pulled him along behind her. “I mean come on, a Jarl’s quarters; Laila Law-Giver’s personal bedchamber!”

The room was impressive even in the dim light that the torch offered. Miria imagined a full dozen of the tiny rooms in the inn could fit within it. Tall, narrow windows covered with heavy dark fabric lined the walls to either side. Miria walked to the closest and pulled the fabric aside.

The silver light of the moon streamed in and cast the room in a faint glow. Cabinets and dressers lined the outer walls, topped with gilded ceramic artwork and glass decorations that reflected the light here and there. Brynjolf scanned the riches with appraising eyes, just then realizing how much wealth the keep likely had concealed behind closed doors.

Miria opened a cabinet to find a collection of fine silk and velvet clothing hanging within. She ran a hand over the material, admiring the feel of the various fabrics, before choosing a shawl and pulling it from where it hung. She swung it around her shoulders, marveling at its weight as it settled. 

Three full-length mirrors, attached to each other by hinges, created a blind in one corner where Miria imagined the Jarl dressed as servants cleaned the room and prepared her for whatever her days were filled with. She went to it and admired the shawl in the dim reflection; turned this way and that to get a better look at it. She saw Brynjolf watching her as she moved, a smile working its way onto his face.

She also saw the bed, as wide as any three of the guild’s beds and nearly long enough to accommodate a giant. The same heavy fabric that covered the windows draped from its canopy, hiding the area within. Miria walked to it and dropped her pack, then pushed the drapery aside and ran a hand over the soft fur that covered the mattress.

“Are you done?” Brynjolf asked from behind her. Miria turned to face him and smiled just before she fell back onto the bed. The mattress was twice as thick and without a doubt stuffed with something much softer than the straw that the typical bed boasted.

“She’s not wed, is she?” Miria asked as she stretched out on the luxurious bedding. “No special someone she shares this bed with?”

“None that I’ve heard of,” Brynjolf answered, his knowing smile widening. He set the torch in a stand next to the bed and dropped the bag he carried next to hers. As he held the drapery aside, the yellow glow spilled onto Miria and she continued her banter.

“Do you think she has, you know, servants to take care of that for her, too?” Miria hooked her feet behind Brynjolf’s knees and pulled him closer. “Or do you think it’s been years since she’s been with anyone but her lonesome self?”

“That last one would make the best story, wouldn’t it?” Brynjolf crawled over Miria and she scooted back until her feet no longer hung over the side. As the drape fell back into place, the couple was left in darkness. “To have two strangers going at it on her very expensive bed when she’s getting none?”

Brynjolf straddled her and began peeling off the armor and clothing that covered his upper body. Taking his cue, Miria struggled to get her own clothing off as she continued her musing.

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess that would depend on the skill of the servant.” She held her breath when Brynjolf’s teeth found her neck and it returned in a pant. “It’s one thing… to pay nothing for nothing…” Her voice caught when he bit down, nearly breaking her skin. “…but if she’s paying a premium for shoddy service….”

Brynjolf’s hands on her skin were like lightning, awakening a hunger Miria was unaware she possessed, and the rest of her speech was lost. While far from a virgin, she had always approached couplings with her Imperial masters as a chore; the job she performed to avoid punishment and assure she was fed. This longing was like nothing she had experienced before.

Miria ran her hands over Brynjolf’s shoulders and back as he moved his oral ministrations to her chest. His muscles were smooth and hard and flowed under her touch as he moved. He propped himself up and began kneading one breast as his mouth closed over the other, causing her to moan low in her throat.

Miria kicked off her trousers and boots, leaving them where they landed on the floor, and wrapped her bare legs around Brynjolf. The rough fabric of his trousers scratched the fragile skin of her inner thigh and she yelped when a buckle snagged her skin, drawing a spot of blood.

Brynjolf’s bulk lifted and Miria reached for him in the darkness. Light from the torch winked in and out as the heavy drapery was disturbed and rough hands grabbed at Miria’s smalls and pulled them from her body. A moment later his naked form returned and his mouth found hers. 

Miria’s senses were overcome; Brynjolf’s mouth tasted of old smoke, the exotic spice of their sweat filled her nose, their moans filled her ears and her skin burned under his touch. Whorls of color that she could not blink away painted the darkness. She was lost in a fog of lust as the seconds turned to minutes and the minutes turned to an hour.

*****

After the spontaneous tryst, Miria felt like she was waking from a dream. The light of the torch momentarily blinded her when the drapery was tied to the side, but her eyes adjusted quickly as she watched Brynjolf dress. She was completely at ease; fed, comfortable, safe and fulfilled; for the first time since she was a child. When Brynjolf turned to look at her she returned his lazy smile.

Brynjolf bent to gather Miria’s clothes from the floor before returning his eyes to her. “You staying in the Cistern tonight, or did you already pay for a room?” 

Miria took a deep breath as her mind continued to clear. “Hadn’t given a thought to tonight yet, but I don’t think I’m ready to head back underground.”

His eyes took in her nude form before he threw her clothing to her. “Looks like you could use another meal. We could make a detour to The Barb.”

Miria dressed slowly, putting on a show for the man as he watched. “We could do that,” she said to him. She took Brynjolf’s hand and he pulled her to her feet. “Are you paying? I’m craving sweets.”

Before he had a chance to answer, she pulled him close by the front of his trousers and locked her mouth onto his. He grunted in surprise as his body responded, but when his arms reached around her she pulled away. “If we decide we need a break before reporting in, we can always get a room then.”

Brynjolf chuckled and shook his head. “I suppose I’m paying for the room, too?”

Miria smiled, slung her pack over her shoulder and took up the torch. “Well,” she said as she turned to the door, “I guess that’s up to you.” 

She had only taken a couple steps before Brynjolf called to her. “Don’t forget this, it looked good on you.”

Miria turned to see him holding the shawl out to her. Behind him, the bed furs were scattered on the floor and proof of their tryst stained the sheets. Miria giggled, drawing Brynjolf’s eyes to the site. It only took a moment for her to strip down and dress again, this time leaving her sex stained smalls on the cleared bed.

She shrugged in response to Brynjolf’s questioning look. “Just to make the message clear.” She hung the heavy garment over an arm before following him out of the room. The two then left the keep the same way they had entered, re-locking each lock they had picked on their way in.

*****

They returned to the guild late the next morning. “Well it’s about time.” Mercer’s voice carried through the open doorway as soon as Brynjolf walked through it, stopping Miria in her tracks. “I thought someone was going to have to break you out of the dungeons.”

Miria noted with a distinct lack of amusement that the man never claimed he would be the one breaking Brynjolf out and realized that was part of her problem with him. Everything was always someone else’s fault, someone else’s responsibility, someone else’s job. She thought it unlikely the man joined a thieves’ guild to become a paper pusher.

“I thought you had more faith in me than that, old friend,” Brynjolf responded with a chuckle. “When have I ever let you down?” He looked back and realized Miria had not followed him into the Cistern and shook his head slightly in amusement.

“Sorry if I don’t accept a thief’s assessment of his own accomplishments.” The answer was offered as a joke, but the old man’s gravelly voice remained hard. “My memories of the past aren’t so rosy.”

“The guild has always come out ahead,” Brynjolf pointed out. “Can’t ask much more than that. None of my missions ever ended with a traitor murdering the Guildmaster and escaping.”

Miria was intrigued by the comment and the long, uncomfortable pause that followed. She heard shuffling in the room beyond the door and strained to hear whatever response Mercer had. When he finally spoke, the sound caused Miria to start.

“Where’s that whelp of yours? I haven’t seen or heard from her since assigning her Goldenglow.”

Brynjolf didn’t bother hiding his shock and annoyance. “Less than a day for Goldenglow?” He turned to face the man directly. “Vex took a full week to prepare, how is it you expect a new recruit to complete it in mere hours?”

Mercer stumbled over a reply. “Well, y… you speak of her like she’s some sort of savant,” he began. “’The way she moves, the way she speaks.’ You made it seem like she was born for the job.” His voice got louder as his confidence returned and Miria backed further from door. When he spoke again his voice matched Brynjolf’s irritated tone. “I figured either she’d be cocky enough to rush it or you’d be cocky enough to push her.”

The rest of the conversation continued behind Miria as she walked down the hall. She was still feeling light-headed after her earlier activities and figured she should get on the job while it seemed luck was on her side. “Cocky,” she said to herself as she went, “he wants to see cocky?”


	5. Breakdowns and Breakthroughs

Miria was thankful for the advice she had gotten from Vex; doubted she would have completed the job and lived had the woman not offered her aid. She entered through the sewer that emptied into the bay, found and disabled each of the traps that had been set to safeguard it and was soon in the cellar of the building.

None of the mercenaries expected an attack and she was able to surprise them and take them out one at a time. She had required a good dose of liquid courage to begin the mission and her head swam. Many would argue against the risk, claim that it would cause her to make a mistake, but it also prevented her from hesitating when she swung her blade or thinking too deeply about the men whose lives she ended. Her soul was far from clean, her jobs had often resulted in combat and death, but methodically hunting them down was new territory.

She cleared the house, collecting the documents Mercer was after and taking anything of value that she could carry. Outside, she was able to lure some of the mercenaries from the fire, thinning their numbers before taking the last few on. She didn’t stop to question her luck when their efforts fell short and soon enough she was the only person left alive on the small island, having suffered only a few minor injuries. Setting beehives ablaze to send the message Mercer intended, she slipped back into the water and swam away as the town guard came running.

Before the fires had even been extinguished, Miria stood before Mercer with a wide smile on her face. He didn’t believe her when she told him the job was done, his own contacts had yet to send word, but when she produced the documents he couldn’t deny it. She left him feeling a sense of accomplishment, a sense of superiority.

Brynjolf was alarmed by her rash actions, admonished her for proceeding without a plan and neglecting any pushback had the job not gone well. Back at the Flagon the rest of the guild kept their distance, not interested in having his wrath directed at them. Miria allowed him to rail on for many minutes before she’d had enough.

“I got the job done,” she finally interrupted him. “Let’s leave it at that.”

“Leave it at that?” Brynjolf repeated. “How about not. I took you on that job hoping you would learn something about forethought and precaution; about doing what needed to be done without stirring up more trouble.”

She turned her mouth up in a sneer. “Too bad it only got you laid.”

The already hushed room fell silent and those who had been watching the scene turned away. The ginger man’s eyes conveyed hatred, his red face and heavy breathing, anger and frustration. The muscles of his jaw twitched as he clenched his teeth, avoiding any further outburst that would weaken his position with his guild mates.

Miria mistook his lack of response as triumph. Her sneer turned to a smile of victory and she turned on her heel and walked away.

Any hint of guilt, any trace of shame or regret, she drown in the wine she had taken from the keep. She traded bottles for the companionship of drunks and vagrants in denial of her loneliness, and for two nights she was able to fool even herself, but the charade couldn’t last forever.

Her wealth was stolen as she slept, as is wont to happen in such company. Unable to replenish her stock and continue the deception, reality came crashing back. She was friendless, hungry and penniless, again. She staked out a corner of the market and begged for whatever scraps she could get.

When Brynjolf arrived, peddling another elixir, she pretended not to see him.

******

“Get up.”

The words, accompanied by a kick, startled Miria awake. She sat on the ground in the market and looked up to the still angry eyes of the ginger man. She turned away. A coin bounced on the cobblestone in front of her.

It was a single septim, not even enough for a bite of food, but it was more than she had. When she looked back up the man was flipping another into the air. Defeated, she gathered the coin on the ground and stood, following when he began to walk away.

He led her past the temple of Mara and to the graveyard behind it. There he slowed his pace, seemed to be taking in the scenery around him. “Are you done with your tantrum?”

Miria looked at him in anger, wanting to deny the accusation but understanding the truth of it. “I didn’t,” she began to speak, but she stopped. “Can I try again?”

“Try again for what?” the man asked, a laugh in his voice.

Embarrassed, Miria turned to walk away but he grabbed her arm to stop her. “What?” she demanded of him, anger radiating off of her. “Did you bring me here to taunt me? One last insult before I’m sent away?”

Her volatile emotions mystified him. “You’re like a child,” he told her.

She tried to pull away from him, but he tightened his grip on her. She swung a fist, but he caught it before it struck. When she continued to struggle he released her and she turned to run.

“Do you want a meal or not?”

The words reminded her of her hunger, and of her overall situation, and she stopped. She took a deep breath to steady herself and returned.

Brynjolf shook his head and began walking again, this time toward the Bee and Barb, and Miria followed. “How is it you’ve survived this long without someone strangling you?”

Miria remembered a man, one of her Imperial masters, who had been rather fond of doing just that and the thought made her laugh. “You’re assuming no one has.”

The man raised his eyebrows at her response, wondering at its significance.

They sat at a table opposite each other as they waited for their meals. The thief stared at her, his eyes burning in their intensity, and she avoided meeting them. When their food was delivered he pulled her bowl away from her.

“First,” he said, in answer to her unspoken protest, “I have a condition. You answer my questions, you get to eat.”

She debated turning him down, walking out and leaving this city and starting again somewhere else, but she decided against it. Teeth clenched, she nodded her agreement.

He pushed her bowl back to her. “OK, we’ll start with something simple. What’s your name, really?”

She took a bite and chewed it slowly, smiling at him as the seconds passed. After swallowing, she answered, “Miria.”

He drew in a deep breath. In a tight voice, he asked, “What is your full name?”

She took another bite, repeating the performance from the first. “I don’t remember another name.”

He hesitated. “OK, where are you from?”

She took another bite. “Skyrim.”

“You’re from Skyrim?”

She gave him a cock-eyed grin and took another bite, drawing this one out extra long. “Yes.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“On a farm.”

“Where… What was the closest city?”

“Falkreath.”

“Wh… Did your family work the farm? Who owned it?”

“My father.”

“Do you have siblings?”

Her game forgotten, she dropped her eyes. “Yes.”

“Brothers or sisters?”

“Brothers.” She looked back up and took another bite of the stew.

“When did you leave home?”

“I think I was 11, 12.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Because I didn’t have a choice.”

Brynjolf studied her face, looking for clues to the vague answer. “Who did you go with?”

Miria shook her head, thinking back. “I can’t remember his name, but if I see him, you’ll know.”

A look of realization came over his face. “And your parents, your brothers?”

“All dead, left behind.”

Their food was gone and when the waitress returned Brynjolf ordered them each an ale. “Same deal?” he asked, offering her an escape if she sought one.

She eyed the mug in front of her as she considered it. “When do I get to ask questions about you?” She lifted the mug and took a drink.

Brynjolf offered her a friendly smile. “When you’re the one buying.”

She told him about her parents; how her father had ‘run away’ from home with a Redguard bride, had spent every coin he had on a piece of land and built the log cabin with his own hands. She expected that the story was embellished, but after their death it didn’t matter. It was the only truth she had.

She told him of her brothers, both older than she. Their skin was lighter than hers, but still darker than father, and their dark hair matched his in texture. Nachael was the eldest, worked with father and traveled on hunts and trips to town. Saldean was the middle child, and suffered all the stereotypical jealousies. He had been mean to his little sister until she was trusted to run the hills with him, after her sixth birthday, at which point the two became inseparable.

She told him about recently getting caught with the Stormcloaks, purely by accident, and being sentenced to death. About realizing that Ulfric Stormcloak himself was sentenced to die with her. And about the dragon that interrupted the execution and the escape that followed. She told him about pretty much everything after that, up to the time she walked through the gates of Riften.

Brynjolf, despite his threat, told a few stories of his own. He had an older brother as well, did still, and didn’t imagine he could ever live up to his standards in their mother’s eyes. He never knew his father, who had died before he was born. No foul play, just the natural consequence of angering an old stallion; a single kick to the head and he was gone. He had also noted the significant gap in Miria’s story, but made sure he’d ordered a few more rounds before mentioning it.

“And after the man-who-you’ll-know-when-you-see took you from your home?”

Miria took a long drink before answering. “He took me to his camp. He was a soldier – an Imperial officer – so he had a private tent and no one would ask questions. He kept me for a couple months, I traveled with him and his troops wherever they went, but then he must have gotten bored because he showed up one night and took me to another tent, with another officer.”

She stared into her mug as she spoke. “And the next… and the next…. It all kinda’ mushes together until I ran away and found the Stormcloaks and got caught by other Imperials.”

“And the dragon, and the escape, yeah, I get it.” Brynjolf stood from his seat and stretched. “So I take it you don’t like Imperials.”

She looked up at him under hooded eyes. “I could do without them.”

“Well, you’ll find a lot of company in Riften.” He held a hand out, waiting for her to take it. “Are you coming back to the cistern for the night or do you have a room here?”

“I can come back?” Miria took his hand and stood, stumbling and squeezing her eyes as her head spun. She righted herself with his support.

“Mercer said you’re in,” he told her. “There’s nothing I or any of the others can say to dispute that.”

He helped her to the cistern and she passed out on a bed – her bed – next to the locking chest that only she had a key to (in a den of thieves, but still).


	6. Chapter 6

Miria woke the next morning to a blinding drumbeat in her head thanks to the rounds she’d shared with Brynjolf the night before. Seeing that she was alone in the Cistern, she wondered at the time and made her way to the Flagon.

Vekel stood behind the bar and Delvin sat at a table nearby. “Greetings, sister,” Vekel’s voice echoed in her mind. “What can I get you?”

Despite her hunger, Miria clenched her jaw and shook her head. Anything she ate now wouldn’t be staying down for long, and she didn’t have coin anyway. She dropped into a seat across from Delvin. “Brynjolf says I can get jobs from you.”

He looked at her with eyes already glazed by drunkenness. “That you can. And I’ve a few good ones for new recruits. Don’t even have to leave Riften.”

He rattled off the available jobs and Miria chose one that sounded easy. “So where’s everyone else off to?”

“Doin’ their own jobs,” Delvin answered. “Rune and Dirge are travelling together to Winterhold, and Sapphire’s likely back at the Bee and Barb.”

“And Brynjolf?”

His lips turned up in a smile. “Back at his post in the Market, where Maven will relay any further orders for us.”

“I’d like to meet this Maven,” Miria told him. “She seems to be the one with the real power. I’m surprised she allows Mercer to call himself Guildmaster.”

His smile turned secretive. “Her name carries weight in Riften, so we are forced to deal with her here. Outside the city, though, she is little different from you or I.”

“So why doesn’t the guild move somewhere else?”

He didn’t answer right away, and instead seemed to study her. “Doesn’t matter which city we go to, there will be someone in charge who we have to deal with. If it weren’t Maven, we’d be dealing with Lady Law-Giver, and she’s considerably less flexible.”

He blushed then and coughed on a laugh, and Miria remembered the scene she’d caused the last time she was in the Flagon. Noting her discomfort, Delvin waved the subject away. “We’ve all got a story, dear. There’s none here can rightly hold a tryst against you.”

“Yeah?” Miria asked him, still fighting embarrassment. “And what’s your story?”

His mood turned melancholy. “I ain’t one for sharing,” he told her in a tight voice, “and you’ll find that sentiment common. If you’d like to keep your story to yourself, you should avoid announcing it next time.” He drifted off into his own world then, and Miria wondered if he even noticed when she left.

The sun was at its zenith when she exited the sewers and beings of all races meandered through the marketplace. Miria joined the crowd and perused the stalls, feigning interest in weapons and armor as she took note of the patrons she recognized from her earlier visit and those who were new to her.

Brynjolf was back at his station with Bersi Honey-Hand, one of the merchants Miria had shaken down, and the man took his leave quickly when he saw her. She returned his sneer with the sweetest smile she could summon as they passed each other.

“Well, you seem to be making friends well.” Brynjolf’s sarcastic voice shook with laughter. “And you’ve apparently made quite the impression; I’ve already had three inquiries into the guild’s services this morning.”

“So what, people come here pretending to be interested in…” Miria picked up a bottle, this one filled with something cloudy and cream-colored. “…whatever this is, but really you talk guild business?”

He took the bottle from her hand and returned it to its spot. “Oh, the stall makes its own profit.” He shook a full coin purse to make his point. “Not every citizen of Riften is criminal, and most visitors believe the rumors of the Thieves’ Guild to be overblown. I also buy and sell information - or silence, as the case may be - and a few less-than-legal products. Other than that, I act as the guild’s face, relaying messages and such.”

Miria picked up another bottle, this one filled with a thick red liquid. “And these are….”

He again took the bottle from her. “Minor healing elixirs with color and flavor added.” When she picked up another bottle, he took it from her before she had a chance to inspect it. She heard annoyance in his voice when he spoke again. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Confused by the animosity, she looked more closely at the man. His smile was tight, forced, and his eyes were cold when he looked on her. Miria realized that, despite his cheerful outward appearance, he was still upset with her. She shook her head and dropped her eyes as she turned and left the marketplace.

She made her way out the front gate and toward the Riften Stables, where Delvin had instructed her to make changes to the business ledger. There was a young Redguard man brushing a beautiful grey dapple horse just outside the stables. As she approached, he rose to his feet.

“Hofgrir will be back shortly,” he told her. “Is there something I can help you with until then?”

Miria shot him a disarming smile. “Oh, no,” she said, a laugh in her throat. She placed a hand on the horse’s muzzle. “I’m just… Well, I’ll likely never have the coin to buy my own. I just wanted to come see them.”

“Oh,” he answered, a note of disappointment in his voice. “They’re not that much, just a thousand Septims, and these horses are more than worth it.” He went back to brushing the horse as he continued. “Better than the ones they sell in Whiterun, or the nags in Markarth.”

“Only a thousand?” Miria went back to stroking the horse and spoke with a voice full of wonder. “I would have expected it to be much more. Why doesn’t everyone in Riften have one?”

“Well, there are other considerations,” he told her. “Few in Riften have room to stable a horse, although we do offer stabling services for a fee. There’s also feed, saddle and tack. It’s quite an investment, but a worthwhile one.”

She glanced at him and gave him a coy smile before returning her attention to the horse. “Do you offer riding lessons?”

The young man stopped brushing and turned to face her. “You’ve never ridden?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his voice. “Even the orphans know how to ride.”

Miria thought of the miles she’d traveled on horseback, either bound or under guard to prevent escape. “Not really,” she lied. “I mean, I did a little as a child, but it’s been so long.” Smile still on her lips, she turned to him again. “I should probably get some lessons in before spending that kind of money, and who better to teach me than you?”

A blush creeped into his dark features and he sputtered before answering. “Well… uh… lessons aren’t something we really do.”

“You could do it on your own,” she pressed, taking a half step closer to him. “Or don’t you get any time off?”

He looked at his shuffling feet and shrugged.

Over his shoulder, Miria recognized the owner of the stables as he returned from whatever errand he’d been running. “You could earn a little extra coin.” She took another half step closer and brushed her fingers along the back of his hand. “Or arrange other compensation.”

His eyes shot up and she could see in them that he had caught her meaning. Without a direct proposition, however, she doubted the conversation would ever go further. Not if he planned on keeping his job, anyway.

“I… I don’t think so.” He picked up the bucket at his feet and dropped the brush into it. “Sorry,” he said as he turned to the shop. “I have to get back to work.”

Miria followed and was relieved when their path took them out of sight of the approaching Stablemaster. “But,” she sobbed. She reached out and grasped his hand. “How will I learn to ride?”

He spun on her when he reached the door and shook his head. “Hofgrir will be back soon.” He pulled his hand out of hers with a jerking motion. “You can….”

“Shadr,” a barking voice called out, demanding obedience.

The young man’s eyes went wide and he straightened. He bowed his head slightly in apology and turned his back to her, making his way around the building to answer the call. Miria smiled and opened the door ahead of her, closing it quietly after she entered.

She could hear the stern voice berate the apprentice as she searched for the ledger. She found it quickly; it resembled those she had seen while travelling with the Imperial army; and made her changes. She also grabbed a small bag of Septims, some scraps of leather and a loaf of bread before making her way back to the door. Master and apprentice were in the stable as the angry voice continued to rant and Miria had little trouble getting away without being seen.

Her return to the Flagon went unnoticed. Vex and Vekel were deep in conversation at the bar, Tonilia was reviewing her inventory and Delvin was lost in his own world. ”Done,” she said as she dropped into the seat across from the older man.

He stared for several seconds before his eyes cleared. “Already? Good on you.” He reached into a pouch and fished for coins, taking an inordinate amount of time to count them, and handed her 50 Septims.

Miria looked at the coins with skepticism, wondering if a debate would get her more.

Delvin laughed aloud, drawing the attention of the two at the bar. “Not what you expected?”

She suppressed her embarrassment. “More is always preferable.”

He laughed aloud again and banged a hand on the table. Miria looked to Vekel and Vex in embarrassment, but they just shook their heads in amusement and went back to their conversation.

“I’ve better paying jobs if you’re interested, but they involve travel.”

Miria’s ears perked up at this and she leaned closer. “What do you have?”

He listed off several jobs in cities she’d heard of but had never been to; another numbers job in Solitude and bedlam jobs in Markarth and Raven Rock. She dismissed the numbers job; High King Torygg had been the one to sell Skyrim out to the Imperials and, as she understood it, his widow still welcomed them into her city; and ferrying to Raven Rock would likely cost her more than she had.

“What’s Markarth like?” she asked.

Delvin smiled widely before answering. “Like no other city in Skyrim.” He told her how the ancient Dwemer had carved the city from the mountainside itself, with rocky staircases and bridges connecting the carved-out dwellings. “Blood and silver are what flows through Markarth.”

“Sounds like the perfect place to rob,” Miria said, matching the man’s jovial tone. “How do I get there?”

His smile faded and his eyes clouded over as he considered the question. “It is West and North of here,” he answered. “I haven’t been there in so long.”

“The carriage,” Vex cut in, and Miria turned her eyes to the woman.

“Ah, yes,” Delvin agreed. “The carriage can take you there, or anywhere you wish to go.”

Miria wondered how much that would cost her before asking, “How long does it take to get there on foot?”

“You don’t want to do that,” Vex answered, joining them at the table. “It’s in the mountains, as Delvin said. Between snow and flooding, I’m surprised the carriage makes it through as often as it does.”

There was some movement in the shadows by the back entrance, the secret door that opened in the graveyard, and Brynjolf’s laugh preceded him into the room.

“Well,” Miria said as she rose to her feet, suddenly overwhelmed by the need for isolation. “I suppose I can sleep on the carriage. May as well head out now.”

She ignored the knowing smirk Vex gave her and turned to the route she had taken the first time she’d visited the place, through the sewers and the Ratway, avoiding contact with the angry redhead. As she departed, her new guildmates greeted him behind her, welcoming one of their own back home. Miria wondered whether she would ever receive such a warm reception.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (very) rough draft

The carriage waited for customers just outside the stables. Miria had noted it on her recent visit, but at that point it had been unmanned; she wondered for a moment where the driver had been then. By the time she returned, the sun had dipped below the horizon and painted the sky in red and orange. Hofgrir spoke with the driver, a Nord wearing simple farming clothes, as Shadr worked frantically in the stables.

“Nearly a hundred,” Hofgrir said, his voice low and menacing. “Taken from inside, behind the counter. Shadr insists we had no customers, but I thought you may have seen something.”

Miria’s steps slowed as she approached.

“I’ve seen many come and go,” the driver responded, looking up and down the roadway as he spoke. “Khajiit, mostly, picking out their spots for the night. There were a couple young’uns running around earlier.”

Hofgrir’s lips went up in a sneer. “Yeah, he told me about running them off, but insists they never came near the shop.” Both men turned to her and nodded in greeting. “Guess I’ll leave you to it then, Sigaar,” He said before stalking back to his apprentice.

“Trouble?” Miria asked the carriage driver as she watched the stablemaster’s retreating back. 

“Nothing new for Riften,” the driver responded lazily. “This is the third time he’s been robbed this moon; you’d think he’d take on another apprentice or invest in a locking chest.”

“Three times?” Miria repeated, turning the statement into a question. She turned back to the driver. “How does he manage to stay in business?”

He shrugged noncommittally. “He’s stubborn enough. Is there somewhere I can take you this evening?”

“How long to Markarth?”

The man sighed heavily and Miria got the impression this wasn’t his favored route. “Less than two weeks,” he answered. “There are 20 stops along the way, in smaller settlements and Khajiit camps, to pick up passengers, sleep and resupply.”

Miria balked at the expected timeframe. She knew Markarth was one of the more distant cities, but she never imagined it would take so long. “Is there any way I can get you to speed it up?” she asked. “Skip the stops and ride straight through?”

He gave her a withering look and didn’t bother to answer the question.

Miria looked back to the stables, wondering at her chances of getting away with one of the riding horses. Deciding against that course of action, she turned back to the carriage. “How much?”

“20 septims,” he answered. “We leave on the morn. And be sure you can feed yourself; meals are not included.”

She handed over the coin, hoping the payment would assure he wouldn’t leave without her in the morning, and walked to the camp across the road. There were three Khajiit, with two tents and a fire in the pit, who already occupied the area, but they made no complaints when she joined them.

The Khajiit kept to themselves, speaking in a tongue she didn’t know, and ignored her presence. When they passed around a spiced wine long after nightfall, however, they included her in the ritual. She took a sip and passed the bottle to the left, as those before her had done. When the bottle was empty, two crawled into one of the tents together while the third settled himself in for the first watch of the night.

Miria used her pack as a pillow and laid back on it, closed her eyes and listened to the crackle of the fire. The Khajiit sitting across from her made no noise, but she felt his presence acutely. After many minutes, she cracked her eyelids to peer at him, only to find him staring intently back.

Miria motioned to the gatehouse and two guards standing within the circle of light before it. “Guard isn’t far away,” She mumbled, speaking just loud enough for him to hear. “Don’t know what you think you’re guarding against.”

He turned his eyes to the gatehouse for just a moment before returning them to her. “Guard do not see all,” he answered, “and seldom aid Khajiit outside their walls.”

Miria snorted a laugh. “I’m not counting on aid,” she told him. “But who’d try anything with Guard standing so close?”

He gave her a knowing smile. “Khajiit stealthy,” he answered, “easily avoid notice of guard.” He hesitated before continuing. “Perhaps more stealthy even than guild novice.”

Her breath caught in her throat as she considered his words. The Khajiit was either very observant, or he had some connection to the guild. “Well,” she finally said, shrugging her shoulders in defeat. “At least I don’t have to keep watch.” She turned away from him and gripped her pack – which contained all her worldly possessions – more tightly.

Morning brought fog so heavy Miria could barely make out the stable across the road from where she camped. She climbed into the carriage, grateful that she didn’t have to make the trek on foot, and picked at the cold biscuit that comprised her breakfast as the road rolled on beneath her. 

Sigaar remained silent and Miria struggled to keep her eyes open. They followed the same road away from Riften Miria had walked to get there; along Skyrim’s southern border toward Ivarstead. Rather than turning toward the settlement when they came to the intersection, however, the driver continued toward Helgen, South of High Hrothgar.

On their fourth night on the road, they camped with a group heading in the other direction, refugees from Helgen. Sigaar asked about the condition of the road and any progress in Helgen since the dragon attack, and the answers he received were not optimistic.

“My house is still in shambles,” one woman told him, clutching a newborn to her chest as two older children clung to her legs. “Half burned by the beast’s fiery breath.”

Sigaar’s eyebrows screwed together as he thought. “Have the roads been repaired?” he asked. “What are the Imperials doing there if not aid and repairs?”

“Oh, they’re repairing the roads alright,” she answered, contempt clear on her face. “At least, the roads North to Whiterun and West to Falkreath, those necessary for their war effort. The walls and keep have also been restored. They’ve pressed the men in town into service, so very little else is getting accomplished. Disease is beginning to spread, my sister lost both her children. I would have left sooner if I was able.”

By the way he gritted his teeth at that information, Miria assumed Sigaar to be loyal to the Stormcloaks. Running a paid carriage, however, required him to at least pretend civility with the Imperials, and knowing how little they cared for the Nords didn’t help.

“How is the road South of Helgen?” he asked. “Could I skip the town altogether?”

“Heavily guarded,” an old man, the only man with the group, answered. “They’ll either charge a toll or accuse you of banditry and press you into service with the others.” It was obvious why the old man had been allowed to leave; his left leg ended just below the knee and he walked with the help of a crutch and the woman.

“Tolls?” Sigaar snorted the reply. “To travel a road they are not repairing to a city they do not control?”

“The Imperials believe they control all,” the woman spat.

Miria continued to listen to the refugees’ stories, tales of death and hardship, desperation and broken promises. While she would never have wished such catastrophe on the people, she did maintain a perverse pleasure in hearing them curse the Imperials for it.

She didn’t sleep well that night. There were several children in the camp, and many of them cried out, waking from nightmares stemming from the dragon attack and the following unrest. When the camp was silent, she fretted over returning to the city. She doubted anyone would recognize her; she had been little more than a waif clad in rags when she fled; but the fear would not subside. 

She heard the shuffling of Sigaar’s movements before the sun was in the sky as he prepared the horse and carriage for the day. Miria rose to help him, since she couldn’t sleep anyway. “So, going through town?” She asked.

“Seems like the thing to do,” he answered, irritation in his voice. “Wouldn’t want to be accused of some wrongdoing for skipping the place.”

“Have you seen it?” She asked, then added, “since the dragon attack, I mean.”

The driver shook his head. “Heard lots of stories about some embarrassing defeat; rumors that the story of the dragon was fabricated to conceal it, and how the Imperials had gone on the warpath. Been avoiding the place ever since.” Once he had the straps cinched tight around the horse, he turned to her. “How about you?”

Miria gave him a crooked smile. “Well, I can tell you that the Dragon is real, and that the Imperials did suffer a defeat.” She nodded at his shocked look. “I was there that day, ran off and never looked back.”

“Rumors claim that they were putting a bunch of Stormcloaks to death,” he said, watching her face carefully for her reaction. “That they had Ulfric himself under the headsman’s axe when the dragon attacked and saved him.”

Miria couldn’t help but smile at that.

“So were you with the Imperials or the Storm….”

“Oh, no,” she blurted out before he could finish. “I’ve no part in this war of theirs.” She picked up the crate of food and water that Sigaar traveled with and put it into the back of the carriage, throwing her own pack atop it.

He seemed taken aback by her outburst. “So you’ve no interest at all in who wins?”

She met his eyes and saw the anger in them. “I’m clothed and fed, and I’ve septims to spend.” She told him, forcing herself to turn away from his frustrated gaze. “Why should their little tiff concern me?”

Miria was grateful for the brisk breeze that morning; she looked less suspicious when she pulled her hood close around her head. Imperial soldiers stopped them at the gate and began interrogating them. Sigaar answered their questions readily, hoping to get through the city as quickly as he could.

Miria didn’t recognize any of the soldiers at the gate and answered their questions with curt responses. They rifled through the crate and her pack, keeping more than half of Sigaar’s food as payment for the toll, and made it clear that their lives would be forfeit if they dared brandish their weapons while in the city. Nothing else seemed to peak their interest, however, and the carriage was allowed to continue.

The scent of old death permeated the city, but Miria caught a newer stench on the wind. The tower where the dragon had landed still lay in disrepair. At its foot was a pile of corpses, newer than what would have resulted from the attack and covered in strange lesions. Three men stood around the pile as two others, cloths wrapped around their faces to ward off the smell, carried another limp body to it.

“They’ll need to be burned,” a soldier called out, shouting to his comrades over the noise of the wind. “And soon, before more fall ill.”

“Here?” the other soldier asked in an incredulous whine. “That’s going to smell great.”

One of the three standing to the side was a Nord holding a flat object in his hand. As the two carrying the body passed him, he asked for the deceased’s name.

Miria didn’t hear the answer, but her blood went cold as she watched the Nord jot notes on the object he held. 

“Hadvar!” a voice from behind her called, and the Nord turned to face it. 

Miria shrunk back into her coat and pulled the hood tighter around her face.

“There’s another here.” The voice continued, and the Nord began walking in his direction.

A wail of desperation and the cries of several children followed. Miria turned toward them, away from the Nord, and her heart sank as she saw a soldier pulling a tiny lifeless body from a grieving mother as an older daughter tried unsuccessfully to calm two younger siblings.

“No,” cried the mother, unable to articulate anything further. Her agitation increased as soldiers closed in from several sides.

“Halt,” one of the soldiers ordered the carriage. “Where are you headed?”

The carriage came to a stop. “Falkreath,” Sigaar responded, naming the next city on the road. “Then North.”

The woman screamed when the baby was taken from her arms and the cries of the children intensified. Two of the approaching soldiers began guiding the children to the carriage as a third stepped between the woman and the dead baby.

“80 septims,” Sigaar continued when he realized he’d be transporting more passengers.

Miria turned in shock, wondering what possessed the man, but his face remained emotionless.

The soldier who had ordered him to stop glared at him as the children were loaded into the carriage.

“20 septims a passenger,” Sigaar explained.

In a flurry of motion, the woman pushed by the soldier in front of her and slammed into the back of the one that carried her baby away. Both fell to the ground and everyone in the area turned to watch. A shout from the distance preceded a single arrow, which stuck fast in the woman’s back.

The children screamed and made for their mother, and without thinking Miria hopped from the carriage. She swooped the youngest two into her arms and stepped into the path of the eldest. “Don’t give them reason to kill all of you.”

The girl’s pain-stricken eyes focused on her, then took in the soldiers that circled them, and she nodded.

Miria struggled to return the younger children to the carriage when strong hands aided her. She looked up and right into the eyes of Hadvar just as the brisk wind blew the hood from her head. They shared a look of recognition as another voice called his name, this one from the direction the arrow had flown, and they both turned to see the Imperial Captain; the same one who had ordered Miria’s death just months before.

Miria pushed the children onto the carriage and climbed up behind them, expecting to feel Hadvar’s strong grip on her arm at any time. Instead, she heard his voice. “Get them out of here!” The carriage jolted into motion and began pulling away.

Miria pulled her hood back up and settled into her seat, nodding her thanks to Hadvar as he pulled out his list and jotted down further notes.


	8. Chapter 8

They were joined by three others as they left; an old man climbed on at the gates leaving the city and a young couple flagged them down a half mile later. Sigaar didn’t collect payment from any of them; rather, he loaded them and their few belongings into the cart as quickly as he could in his rush to get away.

Miria shrugged into her coat and leaned back into one of the forward corners of the carriage, doing her best to ignore the children that gathered around her. The younger two were very young, both under 4, and the older girl was lucky to have 10 years. They settled in well initially, but began fidgeting after several hours on the road.

They passed a Khajiit camp about two hours before Miria expected to stop for the night and Sigaar looked back at his passengers. The old man sat across from Miria, appearing to sleep except for the occasional complaint about the children. The couple sat together on the end of the bench and watched the landscape pass in silence.

The older girl sat next to Miria, putting forth a valiant effort to remain awake and upright as she cared for her younger siblings. The younger, a boy and a girl, huddled together at her feet. They slept at first, but were now barely controlled, complaining of hunger and cold and emitting a distinct scent of urine.

“We’ll stop here,” Sigaar announced as he guided the carriage off the road. The old man sat up suddenly and the couple looked around, trying to figure out how far from the city they’d travelled. The Khajiit watched them warily, but made no move to prevent them from making camp.

“There’s a stream about a half mile off the road,” Sigaar continued when he received no response, motioning to the right. “We’ll need a fire, and someone should hunt.”

The others complained at once and asked skeptical questions, not entirely sure they could trust who they rode with.

Sigaar stood on his seat and took them all in. “I don’t imagine anyone brought food,” he announced, and the group fell silent to hear him. “The soldiers took most of what I carry, so I don’t have enough to share. Any other ideas?”

“I can hunt,” Miria responded, pointing to the bow and arrows Sigaar kept behind his seat, figuring it would be the best way to get some time alone.

Sigaar, thankful that anyone was willing to work, nodded his approval. “Be back before sundown,” he said as he handed over the bow and arrows. “I’ll get everyone working here.”

Miria nodded once and slung the weapon over her shoulder with her pack. When she turned to leave, the girl was standing behind her, the younger children wrestling loudly beyond. She stood and stared at Miria, eyes wide with fear.

Miria took a deep breath. “You’re going to have to take care of your brother and sister,” she told the girl in an even voice. 

The girl looked around at the other adults frantically, searching for someone else who could be responsible for them. 

“I don’t think anyone else here knows how to as well as you,” Miria explained, turning the girl to assure she understood what she was told. Miria fished for a handful of the stale biscuits she carried and handed them to the girl. “Get them to eat, and drink a little water, and try to keep them busy. Maybe you can gather wood for the fire.”

The girl looked to her siblings, seeming more confident now that she had instructions to follow, before turning back and nodding.

Miria forced a smile. “I’ll be back before dark,” she told the girl before taking off. “Stay close; don’t get lost.” 

Miria practically sprinted from the camp, impatient to get away from the others. She wasn’t responsible for the conditions in Helgen; she played no part in the war for control of Skyrim and had nothing to do with the waking of the dragons; but the situation weighed on her nonetheless. She hadn’t even considered what those left in the city were going through, and now she couldn’t escape the thought.  
A rabbit sprinted out of the bushes, following the road ahead. Miria took it down with one shot, then tied it and slung it over her shoulder. She followed the road for many minutes before turning right, toward the stream Sigaar had identified. 

The underbrush shivered as small animals scurried away, so Miria slowed and chose her footsteps more carefully. She cursed as the leaves and twigs underfoot continued to rustle; the sound was barely perceptible, but it was enough to warn the animals nearby. In the distance, a horned head shot up at the noise, scanning the area around it carefully. Miria stopped, fitted an arrow to the bow and took aim. She hadn’t used a bow in many years, but if it remained still….

Between her and her quarry another form rose from the bushes. It was joined on either side by similar forms, dark with fur and low to the ground. The goat’s bleat tore the air and it bolted, followed by three mangy wolves as they took up the chase. Miria watched as the forms shrunk in the distance and eventually lost them in the forest.

She continued to the river and turned back in the direction of the camp, using the rocks on shore and constant rush of water to hide her own footfalls. She got two more rabbits, although she lost three of Sigaar’s arrows in the process, before the squeal of children’s voices told her she was close.

The younger children splashed naked in a shallow, sandy pool off the stream as their older sister rinsed their clothing nearby. Miria nodded a silent greeting to the girl and cleaned her catch, washing the blood and guts away in the water when she was done. When the sun dipped below the horizon, she gathered the children together and they returned to the campsite together.

The fire burned hot and Sigaar adjusted a tripod above it, positioning an iron pot just above the flames. The water in the pot already boiled violently, the steam smelled of onion and garlic. The young couple carried armfuls of sticks and branches and broke them into similarly sized pieces before adding them to the pile and the older man again sat in the cart, his head bobbing as he dozed in and out of sleep.

“I hope you’ve something to add,” Sigaar said as he noted Miria’s return. “This barely qualifies as broth.” His face brightened considerably when Miria raised the brace of rabbits to him, and he quickly went about preparing them for stew. The Khajiit nearby watched the group cautiously, speaking quietly amongst themselves as they did.

Miria eyed the cat-like people for only a second before rising and walking toward them. She ignored both Sigaar’s words of caution and their own widening eyes as she approached their camp. The largest of the group rose to meet her part way.

“Greeting traveler,” he said in a nasal purr. “What is it Ab’anir can do for you?”

“Our numbers swell as we travel, and we find ourselves with more than we can feed,” Miria explained. She nodded to a basket of produce set between the tents. “I was hoping I could talk you out of some of your bounty.”

“Ab’anir is happy to deal with you, but the cost will be more than words.”

Miria traded the fresh, untreated rabbit skins for a handful of potatoes and carrots, then thanked the man for his time and returned to her own camp. The roots were a great addition to the stew, and when each person had eaten their fill there remained a small amount for morning. With full stomachs, and after a day of restless travel, the younger children fell into slumber easily. Their sister sat near them, staring balefully into the fire.

“We can’t always control the situations we find ourselves in,” Miria said as she stared into the fire. She thought of her experiences at the girl’s age and wished she’d had someone to share some wisdom with her. “Sometimes, all you can do is continue to put one foot in front of the other as you wait for change; just make sure you’re not so caught up in your own misery that you miss the opportunity.”

The girl nodded her understanding without averting her eyes from the fire. They sat in silence the rest of the evening, retiring without a word when the rest of the adults did the same.

Miria shared her remaining stale biscuits with the children the next morning as the rest of their group finished off cold leftovers and they were back on the road. They left their new passengers in Falkreath when they got there, the young couple assuring Sigaar that they would look after the children. After replenishing their supplies, they continued, Miria again his only passenger.

They turned North, and the wind grew progressively colder. Sigaar made some attempt at small talk, and Miria answered as expected, but the two otherwise travelled in silence. When they finally came to their destination, Miria wished Sigaar well and the cart moved off.


End file.
